Trauma
by sillygenie
Summary: Post Series 2 ep.8. Two traumatised psychologists with a lot in common. MAD DOGS crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**TRAUMA**

**I'm sure that I'm not the first person to think about the fact that Quinn and Alex are both psychologists and wonder what would happen if they met, but I might be the first to write it down here!  
**

**I don't own anything - Chris Cole - Quinn**

**Matt and Ash - Alex and Gene**

**Writing for fun - not for profit, but I love reviews - like to know what people think.  
**

**

* * *

**

**The conference.**

Sitting in a moulded plastic chair and pretending to read the notes from an open A4 note folder Quinn watches the rain making drizzly maps on the classroom's wall of window panes. He gives each new arrival to the gradually filling room a cursory glance followed by a polite nod of acknowledgement before he returns to his solitary contemplation. It's been a long time since he's seen rain. He's surprised to find it oddly settling. A brush with the familiar after all the madness of the past two months.

Of course he couldn't stay on the island permanently. Not on his own. Not with his skin. Eight weeks after he'd first arrived (seven after he'd claimed the villa and the money as his own) he'd realised it was just too bloody hot, in summer at least. At least that's what he told himself. And so he returned to England. By air. Economy class - to avoid suspicion.

Not that there was anyone or anything to suspect. Fortunately the police corruption had stopped at Maria.

Once his statement - to the effect that she and Dominic had killed each other - had been fed through the dour-faced disinterested translator and repeated in stilted and possibly inaccurate terms to her replacement, he'd been left alone. He surmised (correctly) that the local force was now so busy chasing all the petty criminals trying to step into the power vacuum left by Dominic's death that they had little time to wonder about the miraculous survival of the reticent Englishman occupying the villa like a lonely ghost, dipping in and out of the pool, going for lonely walks and making only brief forays for essentials into the town. As far as anyone could see his only company had been Alvo's strangely cheerful groundsman, to whose sharp shooting skills, had they but known it, Quinn owed his life.

Despite being back a month he's seen no logical reason to contact the others – he presumes they are busy getting on with their lives; nestling in the bosoms of their families, trying to forget the trauma of that crazed week. He tells himself that arriving on their doorstep would only aggravate a difficult situation. Cause them revisit things best left to the dark recesses.

He's considered going back to his old life, the lecturing, but has realised the only part of academia to appeal is study. Now he has no financial need to work he has decided to go for the qualification which has previously alluded him through lack of funds: a doctorate, a phd.

Doctor Quinn - he can imagine the fun Rick and the boys would have with that one if they knew.

He knows he must consider his phd proposal carefully, especially if he is to devote years of his life to it. He's thought about it for a while, but one subject keeps circling his brain like a vulture: trauma.

It's why he's here. A week-end academic symposium on that very subject.

The attendees of the 'trauma; the roles of attention, memory, the therapeutic relationship in relation to psychological trauma', session spread themselves awkwardly around the room, awaiting the arrival of the guest speakers. He detects the reek of dusty books mingled with lavender. It's so quiet and middle-class and boringly tame Quinn contemplates breaking the atmosphere with a joke, but even the most buttoned up of the bookish women and macro-biotic oddballs present have probably heard the one about the psychologist being banned from a bar for being too Jung.

The only other joke he knows has all kinds of troubling memories attached to it and involves him shouting out the word 'COCK' very loudly, and he's not sure he's up to receiving the kind of attention doing that would cause.

He's saved from potential social embarrassment by the arrival of a nervous young man, a cross between junior office boy and security guard, who tells them their guest speaker has been delayed, and if they would like they can help themselves to coffee and tea from the kitchen two doors down on their right he will let them know when the speakers arrive.

A murmur of polite disappointment ripples through the room. Quinn sucks in a breath. It's no use. The pull of nicotine has reared its ugly head yet again. He heaves his bag to his shoulder and reaches into the pocket of his light brown linen jacket for his cigarettes and lighter. The office junior starts in alarm at the sight.

'I know I'm one of societies lepers,' _Christ anyone would think he'd just pulled out a gun, '_but there must be somewhere….'

'In the carpark - there's a shelter. If you'd like to follow me.'

8888888888888

Alex sits twisting her hands in the passenger seat. Margery is driving. They're in her meticulously restored pale blue Morris Minor: Alex contemplates their relationship. Patient and therapist, and now she supposes, colleagues. She should feel relieved and empowered by Margery's belief that she's getting better. Margery tells her that she is adjusting to life since the coma well, but Alex still feels raw inside. She still has more questions than answers. Still feels at odds with the world because despite getting what she fought for two long years for she feels lost.

Attending this conference is Margery's idea. Margery tells her she's there for her expertise on the subject, but Alex knows she's just there as an exhibit. A 'here's one I counselled earlier' aren't I great!

Alex is not allowed to work yet. Even in Margery's over positive estimation she's not quite right, but she's getting desperate to get back to what she does best. She may be a mother, but two years is a long time to miss in a child's life. Two years for Molly to get used to Judy - her father's wife. She knows Molly misses their baby, her half sister and she can't understand her mother's sudden mood swings when all she wants to do is concentrate on her own.

Alex knows she needs to work. Not just for her but for Molly too. They both need to feel like she's firing on all cylinders and not merely hanging around waiting for something miraculous to happen and everything to click into place.

Alex knows she needs to get busy to forget.

8888888888888888888888

Quinn stands under the shelter looking out on the dismal sea of cars and puffing on his cigarette. The rain is bouncing off the tarmac, splashing his sandalled feet, spraying the ends of his linen trousers with grimy residue. He should have known. England equalls rain and dressed more appropriately, less like a lost ex-pat.

He's grinding his spent fag butt under his foot when he senses someone is watching him. No, not watching him - staring. He turns to look across the car-park automatically seeking out the cause.

He sees the curly mop of hair of a woman locking up her car, but it's not her who's been staring. It's another woman, her hair pulled sharply back from her face, a pretty face, he notes, her mouth open in shock. She starts running towards him slowly at first and then faster, and for a moment he's terrified, re-living the awful moment when the dwarf appeared out of no-where with a gun. Even though he can see she's unarmed his now honed instinct is to look for an escape, and it's just as well because he sees it then, the car heading for her if she doesn't stop, and he's spurred into action because he can't see someone else get killed before his eyes.

He's running across the car-park towards her and he sees her face transform, and he can't quite equate the expression of joy on her face with her apparent death wish, but his frantic waving has halted her progress and she's stopped running. He's also attracted the driver of the car and the collision has been averted, and he's just in time to catch her in his arms before she faints.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

TRAUMA

Disclaimer

I don't own either A2A or Mad Dogs. Writing for fun not profit.

Thanks for all the superb encouragement, the reviews, alerting and favouriting for chapter one. Knowing people are enjoying it makes such a difference.

Hope you enjoy this just as much.

8888888888888888

Chapter two.

88888888888888888

Quinn looks down at Margery. She's a small woman for all her air of authority. Her greying curls bounce as she talks. He knows her type. Professional woman's woman. She wears ethnic scarves and chunky ear-rings designed to show off her multi-cultural interests but he knows she's brought them from some designer shop not, as would be more ethical, from Oxfam. He can predict the books on her bookshelf, the records in her record collection - pre-digital - but she'd have his balls for breakfast if he told her how transparent she was. Not that he'd want to let on. He grants her the accolade of being an interesting speaker, but as a person…

The woman lying across the chairs in the staffroom on the other hand…

He wonders when he'd become so bold in his thinking. Was when he'd shot Maria? Did killing someone give you confidence, or was knowing he'd faced up to something - the dullness of his own life, the disappointments and failures and in that crisis he's created someone new.

Now this new man has held a woman in his arms for the first time in years. She may have been unconscious at the time, but she'd run to him with such joy on her face. That had to mean something didn't it?

88888888888888888888888

She comes to in a staffroom. Her first sight is a close-up of the grey marl upholstery of the chair she's laying on. Her nose breathes in the smell of instant coffee mingled with stationary. She tastes iron. Her tongue finds a snag of lose flesh on the inside of her cheek. She must have bit it when she fell.

She wonders if she's in another world. She's lost count of the possibilities now: parallel universes; different time zones; coma world; reality; super-reality…

She's a traveller, a surfer, riding on the crest of time, jumping from decade to decade before the momentum breaks. When she dreams she moves fluidly between them all, but the movement comes only in her dreams, until now.

In the fuzzy cloud in her head she sees the car park, and _Gene._

Hysteria rises in her chest as she realises the impossible presence of Gene. She wants to believe, but she can't believe. She ran towards him. He ran towards her - so he recognised her - even though he is impossible. And he caught her, even though to be caught by his arms was an impossibility.

Since waking from her coma she's learnt it is best not to think about him. About any of them. Margery has told her that she can't afford to think of her coma world if she wants to get better: but she does. She knows she should not think of him, for Molly's sake. But she does. Guilty, sly, self-indulgent thoughts that make her feel...

Then she confronts the impossibility of him and God it hurts.

Whoever he was, whenever he was, wherever he was, in her brave moments she hangs on to the thought that they were connected.

But then they weren't.

A nearly relationship; a never-to-be relationship; a no future relationship, a nothing.

She's clinging on to the separation of worlds: this world, his world; this time, his time, but she's constructing connections with damaged synapses. A brain-damaged victim learning to think again.

The doctors have explained to her that inside her brain her frayed neurones will be joining on to other frayed neurones to make new meanings. She understands that they'll spark new sensations and feelings and eventually, so they promise, the world will make sense. But, she asks, which world?

Now her frayed neurones have constructed Gene. So how does that make sense?

She counts the real things around her. The things she can touch and see and smell and taste and hear.

She hears Margery's voice talking to the Gene man standing with his back to her in the doorway.

'_I've got to give a talk - people are waiting. She's recovering from a gunshot wound to the head, a coma. I daren't leave her…would you mind?_

Whatever happened to patient confidentiality? She wonders if the anger she feels at Margery's unprofessionalism is real or just gut reaction. Someone told her once to trust her guts. She wonders who.

She's woosy, but she sits. The door is ajar. She hears Marjory finalise the arrangement. She grasps that Margery is leaving her in the care of the man who caught her in the car park. She understands that she, Margery, is very grateful. She hears the Gene man promise to look after her. His voice has the same pitch, the same cadences as Gene's and her throat constricts with vain hope, but he Gene man's accent is soft, southern - _nancy boy. _

The 'man' has got his back to her but Alex takes in all she can. She hangs her fragile sanity on him looking like Gene, but not being him; sounding like Gene but not talking like him. She has a sudden wonderful thought that Gene's come to take her back with him but because he knows people like Margery won't let her go with him he's in disguise - but she pushes the thought back like the nonsense it is.

She resolves to concentrate on their differences: the Gene man and her Gene.

She's an artist drawing a moving life model, correcting her first impressions, trying to draw what she sees, not what she wants to see.

He's got Gene's build but he's standing all wrong. His pose is too relaxed and yet he fidgets as if he's nervous, and his clothes…

Gene would never wear anything so casual and sandals.

Then he turns and he's wearing a smile. A smile on Gene's face with Gene's eyes and she's glad she's sitting because now she knows Margery was right about to tell her not to think about Gene. Now with the Gene man in front of her she doesn't trust herself to stand.

She shouldn't have thought about Gene. She shouldn't have remembered Gene or dreamed or cared about Gene because this is what happens.

8888888888888888888888888888


	3. Chapter 3

TRAUMA

Disclaimer: Not for profit, characters owned by Kudos and Sky.

Felt bad for posting such a short last chapter and they kept talking, making me write more. Afraid I need to tell them to shut up for a while so I can get on with real life. Hope everyone enjoys this and understands that it may be quite a while before the next update - and if you do enjoy I love reviews!

88888888888888888888888

Chapter 3

88888888888888888888888

He extends his hand with an introduction.

'Quinn.'

His grip is warm and reassuring but this hand has known moisturiser and manicures. But even though it feels wrong, because she so wants this hand to be Gene's, she holds it longer than she should. He notices. His eyebrows register pleasure at the contact and he gives her a shy twinkly smile that would have melted her had it come from a different, more aware place.

He says, 'I think we have a case of mistaken identity.' He faces her full-on, allowing her to dispel the image of the man he assumes she's hanging on to, but he can see she's still not quite believing he isn't him.

She responds with a nod, the only answer she can summon from her confusion to give to this not quite Gene Quinn man.

When she lowers her gaze he blusters. 'At least it must be because I think I'd remember someone like you.'

Her eyes snap up then and her expression is one of deep scrutiny.

He steps back, embarrassed. He's been out of the dating game too long he's spinning her ridiculous, absurd lines. He consoles himself with the fact he didn't say anything as gauchely ridiculous as, "I'd remember someone as beautiful as you."

'What are you doing here?' She asks. Her voice is a hissy whisper as if she thinks they know each other and that she's annoyed because he's breaking cover.

'I'm here for the conference, I'm a psychology lecturer - no actually I was a psychology lecturer. Further education. I'm working out my doctorate proposal.' It's an honest enough rebuff and she seems to react positively. He relaxes a little in relief.

'So you'll be Doctor Quinn?' She hides her giggles behind her hand. The image of Gene in a Little House on the Prairie type frock dispensing frontier medicine flits through her brain, fuel to the madness bubbling under the surface.

He wants to join in with her laughter but he holds back, not quite sure yet how he should behave with her - just how ill she is.

Whilst he's looking bashfully away she adds, 'You couldn't make it up.' Her tone has changed on a sixpence and experience tells him she's applying a form of interrogation. Beautiful and smart. There should be alarm bells ringing in his head but her complete openness when she ran to him earlier has deafened them.

She sees him glance at a chair opposite hers and realises he wants to sit but is waiting for her to indicate permission. She lowers her eyes as if granting it but raises them quickly - hoping to catch him out. Hoping that she'll spot a spark of recognition, but she doesn't.

He sits on the chair and crosses his legs, not aggressively at the ankle in the way Gene would, but delicately, thigh over thigh. His free leg swings back and forth bringing attention to his bare sandalled feet.

'It's not everyday women run towards me.' He begins, running his hand along the leg of his trousers, picking at an imaginary brush of dirt at the knee. 'I normally only attract pissed up northern tarts or ones with a Daddy fixation.'

He's throwing her a line so like Gene she feels the need to enter a teasing riposte to widen the chink.

'An Electra complex?' She hopes throwing a psychological term at him might get him to drop the facade. But it doesn't.

His returns with a flash of brilliantly white teeth, quickly covered.

'Ah yes. A girl's psychosexual competition with her mother for possession of the father. Those Greeks had a lot to answer for didn't they? That's not you, is it? With the father fixation?' He worries suddenly that his self-effacing pessimism has uncovered an unwelcome truth. He attempts recovery with a strained laugh that dies as soon as it begins.

She responds with barely concealed disappointment.

'No, but my father succeeded in blowing up both himself and my mother in front of me when I was eight - well he would have killed me too but I got out of the car in time.' Her voice is edged with bitterness. He retreats into a professional response.

'I'm sorry. That must have been awful for you.'

She's starting to realise she'll get no more hints of Gene from him now, but he senses a nerve hit and seeks to change subject, accidentally bumbling into the one foremost in her mind. 'So this man, the one you thought I was in the car park, who was he?'

She gulps. Is this a test? How can she explain Gene to this Gene Quinn man?

'A colleague.' His eyebrows lift, waiting for her to expand. 'I'm a police officer. I was a police officer, a DI. I was shot in the line of duty. I'm in recovery - as I'm sure Margery told you. He...well it's complicated.' She looks to him for reassurance. He gives it, unconsciously uncrossing his legs and leaning closer. 'He was my DCI. Gene Hunt.' She lingers on his eyes for as long as she dares as she says Gene's name. Then it becomes too much, the blankness, the unflinchingness of his unknowing gaze. She seeks distraction in the unparallel lines of the venetian blinds behind him, in the stray cotton hanging from the sleeve of her jacket, anything.

'So where is he now?' He asks gently. Her hope that the Quinn man sitting opposite her is really her Gene is smashed a little more with each polite sensitive exchange.

She takes a deep breath. 'I don't know.' She pauses, 'they don't know. They think he's dead but they haven't found a body.' Her explanation is a mixture of half truths and truths. The first thing she did when she'd been discharged from hospital was to look through the records for him, but all she'd found was a PC with the same name who'd vanished in the 50's.

'So this Gene, he must have meant a lot to you...' Her mouth opens as if to rebuff his intrusion on her memories. He senses the need to apologise. 'I'm sorry it's just my personal observation. Just my personal opinion. Your face - when you thought I was him - you looked, well somewhat ecstatic, and I just thought…'

'You thought what?' She snaps, her tolerance in this absurd situation she's conjured leeching away as the feeling of loss threatens to engulf.

'Nothing. I thought nothing.' He counters defensively, holding up his hands in half surrender, but then he feels slightly ashamed at his dishonesty. 'I thought you must have been close, that's all. I'm sorry.' He admits sadly, sure he's blown their fragile connection.

He makes to stand, as if to leave. He pats his pockets. She recognises the nervous fidgeting. Another smoker - but then she senses he's wavering and remembers Margery has bound them together for the duration of her lecture.

'It's a bit stuffy in here, don't you think?' She says. Now faced with the prospect of him leaving her she realises she doesn't want to lose his contact for all that her recent rudeness indicates otherwise. 'I could do with a walk outside. Would you take me?'

He grasps the lifeline she's thrown him.

'Of course, but I hope you don't mind if I…' He raises two fingers to his lips to mime smoking.

88888888888888888888888

It plays on his mind as they negotiate the labyrinth of college corridors. He'd always believed women appreciated honesty until he got married, and divorced. Now he wants to know something that only this woman, this beautiful, sexy, smart woman, stepping in line beside him can tell him and he doesn't know how to ask without being painfully honest. He sends her sly glances, checking she's keeping up with him, wondering if he'll ever be able to trust anyone enough to let them in.

As they walk shoulder to shoulder she's aware of the irony. The existence of this man with an air of mystery she can't help but feel attracted to. A man with Gene's body. A fellow psychologist. An educated man, most probably a cultured man. A man with manners. If she'd been asked to construct a male companion would she have made one like him? Probably. Has she made him? She reaches out a hand to touch his arm, seeking to reassure herself of his existence.

He takes her gentle touch as a request for support and offers his arm to her.

Unable to give any other explanation for her action she links her arm in his. He smells of smoke and suncream and with the faint whiff of the chemical they use in dry-cleaning. She has to resist the urge to lean her head onto his shoulder. She knows being close to him hasn't made her feel as safe as being with Gene would, but she doesn't feel afraid either.

He's buoyed by the fact she's looked at him and wanted something he has. Even though he's spent every day of the past few months analysing each action of the ordeal of Alvo's death and getting to know himself in the process, he realises with the linking of her arm in his that underneath he's a child, an adolescent seeking confirmation of his existence as a man and it makes him cross with himself because he knows he needs that affirmation more than anything. Even if it is secondhand, borrowed from a dead man.

88888888888888

They find themselves sitting in the bus-shelter - looking over the car-park.

'Married?' She asks. Her question inspires a flicker of hope but he hides it behind a puff of smoke.

'Divorced. You?'

'Divorced.'

'From him?' Part of him, the part that wants her affirmation, even though he knows it's inappropriate, wants to imagine this sexy beautiful woman and his doppelganger married.

'No, not from him.' His eyes stay on the cars in front of them. She senses discomfort, she must have touched a nerve. 'Did she break your heart?'

Smart. He'd forgotten smart. This sexy, beautiful, smart woman, sliding under his armour and finding Nina.

'No. That was the trouble.' He flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette. 'Got my heart broken long before that.'

If she's surprised by this honesty she doesn't show it.

'What happened?'

'Oh, the usual. I wasn't enough for her. Went off with my best friend - well one of my best friends.'

'And you've never got over it?'

'Time heals, but no. Never got over it.' He looks at her again. He wonders if she sees something of this Gene in him now or if he's just blown it.

His honesty both surprises her and yet doesn't. Would she really want someone without the scars of life? She wonders how much more of herself is she exposing in her construction of him.

'So what was he like this friend?'

'Rick? - A prick. Doesn't deserve her - not that I'd tell her that.'

She smiles. A gentleman with honour. Gene would approve.

'Children?'

'Two. One of each, both at university. You?'

'Daughter, 14. Lives part-time with me, part-time with her father.'

'And Gene, he's not her father?'

'No. He was later.'

'So were you….'

'What?

'Sleeping together, or is it deemed unprofessional, fraternisation within the ranks?' If she's shocked by his question she doesn't show it.

'No. The police force isn't that dated. We weren't. But if we'd have been allowed more time together I think we may have had something special.'

'And he looked like me?' She knows she shouldn't let the look of this man draw her in but she can't help but be attracted.

'Yes.' She admits, staring into his eyes and trying not to see Gene there. 'Very much like you.'

She stares out at the car park, finding interest in a driver attempting to squeeze their gas-guzzler into a space designed for a mini.

'I'm sorry - well no I'm not bloody sorry - because I wouldn't have met you.' He cringes at how inept he feels, 'but, well, you know what I mean. So what was he like?'

'The most difficult, stubborn, obnoxious, misogynistic and reckless human being I've ever met.'

'But…?'

'But underneath he was a good, kind, decent man.'

888888888888888888888

TBC

Borrowed a few lines from the shows, bet you've spotted them...


	4. Chapter 4

**Trauma**

**I don't own anything from either Mad Dogs or Ashes to Ashes - meddling with the characters - just for fun.**

**Apologies for the length between updates to this story. Didn't mean for it to be this long.**

* * *

Afternoon Tea.

* * *

She's meeting him. In the afternoon. It's not a date. Not really. It's something on the edge, a fingertip away from touching.

She's told Molly, 'We're just two adults of opposite sexes deciding if we want to get to know each other better.'

Molly was appalled.

In hindsight Alex regrets using the word 'sex' in the sentence which introduced the idea of her meeting a 'man' to her daughter. The combined images of sex and parents creates something of an oxymoron even for a fourteen-year old used to constantly adjusting to difficult circumstances.

They're due to meet at 1 o'clock in a park, in a fashionable part of town. She imagines they'll go from there to somewhere innocuous, somewhere where they can talk but with people around so she doesn't feel pressured by their intimacy. She imagines he would be considerate like that.

They could be two old friends simply spending time together.

Only - she thinks - they're not friends - not really. Besides their shared profession and him being as physically like the one person she's ever felt a real connection to as it is ever possible to be, AND him telling her something it probably took years of marriage for his wife to figure out...she knows nothing about him at all…

_Who is she trying to kid?_

At their first meeting Quinn let her in further in two hours than Gene did in as many years, but does that make him the better man for it?

She flicks through the clothes occupying her wardrobe. She's searching for something appropriate but she feels estranged from the plain white shirts and blue trouser suits, her old workwear, and her casual wear of t-shirts and jogging bottoms.

She fights off images of her Geneworld self in off-the-shoulder tops and skin-tight jeans. She felt strong and vibrant in her eighties clothes - or was that Gene, did he give her the power? She'd arrived in his world dressed as a prostitute, but the awareness of her sexuality had continued. Initially she'd thought her clothes were a 'fuck you, I'll be whoever I want to be'- to the world she found herself in, but it wasn't her, not really, it was a reflection of Gene. The Alpha in him had made her put everything out there too. Everything on the line. His balls, her breasts.

It was only when she started using her brains that she'd relaxed and learned to appreciate his finer qualities, and hell how she missed them - missed him.

But here was Quinn with other kinds of _fine_ qualities: cultured, polite, and gently playing the game. She might miss the direct approach but post comma she wouldn't be strong enough for a relationship built on confrontation. Gentle and slow is good.

She turns her attention back to her wardrobe.

It would help if she knew exactly where they might go after their stroll in the park, but she doesn't. At least with Gene she had a clear idea what he would like - slutty but not too slutty. She almost smiles as she recalls him asserting his opinion on her undercover outfit when they were going after Simon Neary, taking off her earrings and adjusting her neckline. Then the look of approval on his face when she'd worn that gold lame number to Viv's birthday -

God, why can't she get him out of her head? And why does it hurt so much to remember him?

She's nothing slutty in her wardrobe now and the nearest thing to a little black dress is a finely tailored black silk shirt. She decides to team it with a pair of figure hugging jeans, some strappy heels and a long business jacket - casual yet elegant, a spritz of perfume to give her confidence. She wears her hair down, surprised by it's length. It's spent too long being scraped back from her face it's formed kinks. It gives her hair body, waves rather than curls. The feminine softness suits her mood.

88888888888

He's asked her to meet him in a park the day after. It was the first place he'd thought of after Margery came to collect her. Galvanised into action but the prospect of her departure he knew he shouldn't let the opportunity of getting to know her better pass - not after the frankness they'd shared. A little voice might whisper 'she's only agreed to meet you because you look like 'Gene',' but he ignores it.

From his chosen bench he has a good view of her approach. He sits inhaling the scent of cherry blossom from the tree settling him with dappled shade, letting her come to him, enjoying just watching her. She doesn't realise but she wears her vulnerability like an aura, plain for all to see. It makes him want to draw her to him and wrap her in a protective embrace. He can't tell when he became so gallant.

He decides to make an appraisal of what she's wearing - just in case he's required to comment. She's wearing enormous heels with the ease of a ballroom dancer. Of that he approves. It's only when she's closer and turns to face him that he sees the black of her shirt.

The resemblance to another woman, a woman he shot dead, paralyses him. He gapes, his mouth dropped open, limbs limp in shock. He's only brought out of his terror by her huge smile. He starts and stands. Almost on automatic he reaches out for her hand, her arm. Pulling her gently closer to him he bends forward to kiss her cheeks, one after the other, a continental greeting. For once he doesn't think of ponsey foreigners as he does it but wonders why kissing with tongues is called French…

'You look nice,' He falters.

'You too.' She replies with honesty. This time he's wearing shoes and he's looking very dapper in a pale beige suit and dark blue shirt and a loose tie with hints of yellow. Something Gene wouldn't have chosen for himself - she thinks, then berates herself for thinking about Gene again.

He feels impelled to walk, to lead her through the avenue of trees to the river. He makes a gesture with his arm like an old retainer bowing, after you ma'am. She moves ahead graciously and they fall into a slow paced stroll.

'How are you?' He asks awkwardly.

'Fine. And you?' She hoovers between making direct eye contact and stealing sly sideways glances at him. If she could marry all her feelings for Gene and meld them onto this man would she be happy?

'Yes, fine.' Hell even his voice is the same. Will she be able to do it though, fall into a relationship based on her attraction to another man? People keep telling her she needs to move on, but what if in embarking on a relationship with Quinn she forgets Gene, if Quinn overwrites the past - is that what she wants - or needs?

'It's a lovely day.' He comments.

'Yes, lovely.' She responds quietly.

She shouldn't be surprised they're getting stuck on small talk. If she's brutally honest with herself she's only agreed to meet him because he looks like Gene and he's kind but it's not strictly fair of her. Her acceptance could be construed as selfishly manipulative.

She wonders what he's getting out of their meeting, what he wants to get out of their meeting.

'Where are we going?' She asks.

'I thought we'd go to my hotel - ' Her gasp of surprise interrupts his train of conversation and infers a sordid inference - not that he doesn't have designs in that regard, just that he planned on taking a sensitive timely approach - 'no nothing like that' he blusters, realising he's in danger of appearing to protest too much, 'they have a reputation for doing the best afternoon teas in London'.

'Tea and cake, sounds delightful.'

'And rows of little triangle sandwiches…'

88888888888

She allows him to place a hand on her back and guide her gently into the entrance foyer and on to the tea rooms. Already their nostrils are being assailed by the aroma of fresh baking. In the airy room the mellow tinkling of a piano being played to relax the listener accompanies the clatter of cutlery and hum of low conversations. It's all very British.

They're welcomed in and shown to a table by a referential waiter with a pleasant smile. Alex feels slightly out of place in jeans but once they're seated she's happier. They take a menu each. She's dazzled by the number of choices on offer.

'Have you been here before, is there anything you can recommend?' She asks him, amused and slightly impressed by his choice of watering hole.

'No, on both counts.' He answers. He must appear more at home in this environment than he feels.

After allowing them time to settle the ever helpful and alert waiter comes to ask their opinion on tea before recommending one of the seventeen or so house varieties.

She watches Quinn answering each question with patience and care, never once appearing rushed or annoyed at the length of the process. She catches sight of his long fingers stroking down the menu and shivers. The memory of her other man, a hot wet and ten sugars man, comes unbidden.

The waiter turns his attention to her, and he's grateful that the ordeal of choosing is over.

'Did you know,' he starts, as they wait for their order to arrive, 'Did you know that Rudyard Kippling started writing Jungle Book in this very room.' She's impressed.

'I wonder what particular aspect of the behaviour of his fellow tea drinkers inspired him.'

'Who knows. It's difficult to imagine the uptight Victorian British letting loose any animalistic behaviours here.'

She considers the gently cultured surroundings, 'No, quite.'

Their tea arrives, exquisite bone china cups and silver service ware.

They each sip their tea -

'What's yours like?' He asks.

'Invigorating. What's yours like?'

'Stimulating.' Their gazes flit from each others eyes to their mouthes and back again - but it's a little too intense. She's thankful to the waiter interrupting the moment with a three tiered stand of sandwiches, warm scones and delicate pastries.

'That looks lovely,' she gasps, throwing him an excited smile. He's pleased beyond words by her response.

'It does indeed. What shall we try first?' He rubs his hands in anticipation.

'I think I'll forgo the sandwiches and try the scones. Would be a shame to let them go cold.'

She helps herself to a scone nestling under a napkin and transfers it to her plate. He watches her as she expertly cuts it open into equal halves. She spreads the thick cream on one half then lifts a helping of strawberry jam onto her knife. She's mid transfer to the scone when a child dashing across the floor bumps her elbow sending the precariously balanced jam onto her black shirt.

'Urgh!' She cries, half in annoyance and half amused - but then she sees his face. Something is very wrong. He's shaking as if in deep shock, his eyes locked onto the jam on her breast as if he's seeing something else there, re-living another event that she has no part of.


	5. Chapter 5

Trauma

Firstly a big SORRY for keeping everyone waiting for so long for an update, but be warned - this has moved section because there is naughty ADULT MATERIAL in it - if you're underage or just don't like smut, don't read.

Usual disclaimers re A2A and Mad Dogs - I don't own anything. Sadly, but the lovely fanfic writer Fenella Church gave lots of inspiration for this chapter.

88888888888888

Recap - Quinn and Alex have gone on a date to Gene's hotel for afternoon tea. She spills jam on her blouse causing Quinn to have a flash back.

888888888888888

The restaurant and hotel staff have been calmly efficient: after establishing a lack of any immediate medical emergency in the tea rooms the duty manager transferred them both to Quinn's room with minimum fuss.

Quinn now sits blank-faced on a cream coloured chaise lounge in a large airy room the size of a small apartment.

Alex, perched on the end of the bed, sits opposite him, alert to the change in atmosphere signalled by the sedate sliding of the solid panelled door's closing mechanism as the last of the hotel staff supervising the 'situation' departs.

The voiles partially concealing the balcony lift like breaths in the quiet of the room.

'Take it off.' Quinn's voice sounds broken, his eyes barely lifting from the cream rug covering the rich antique wooden floor, but his message is unequivocal. _Take the shirt off._

She stands fumbling for the buttons as if made meek by his simple demand.

In this beautiful understated room, with the slight dampness of the jam permeating to the areola of her right breast, and a slightly dishevelled Gene lookalike telling her to take her silk shirt off - she could be forgiven for the stirrings in her stomach. But she only acquiesces because she knows at this moment seduction is at the bottom of Quinn's agenda. She's seen post-traumatic shock too many times not to recognise the symptoms.

'You can have one of mine, they're...'

She finishes his sentence, already moving towards the impressive walnut piece behind him. 'In the wardrobe.'

He looks up quickly as she passes, anxious to see her skin, to see it perfect and unharmed, but afraid too that it isn't, because his mind is re-playing the image of the impact of his bullet on Maria and confusing it with her, until this churning self-realisation sparks a new terror he can't hold in.

She's in the en suite, just shrugging her arms through the sleeves of a crisp white shirt, when she hears the first of his jagged uncontrollable sobs. She's by his side in an instant - cradling his head against her, rocking him like he were her child, shushing his hair - letting the rages of emotion pass through him, being as solid as the shore against the waves.

Eventually the sobs pass and he lies, head in her lap, nuzzled against the bare skin of her stomach. She wonders if he's fallen asleep but the brush of eyelash against the wet on her belly says otherwise. He lifts himself slowly, as if waking from deep sleep, looking ahead, not at her. She sees he carries the imprint of her jeans on his face, the buckle loop, the double stitching of the waistband. She wants to stroke it smooth, but instead she waits for him to speak.

He clears his throat - not quite trusting his voice to sound normal after its releasing of raw emotion.

'I'm sorry - ' He stutters, his eyes flickering downwards and then looking at her at last to hold her concerned look for as long as he can, then he lowers his slowly eyes and instantly regrets it.

The urge to run is strong. He stands, shaky on his feet, but ready to find escape - but she slips her hand into his and squeezes his gently, insisting he sits back down beside her. He's too weakened not to do as she wishes - but he doesn't look at her again.

'I suppose you want to know what that was all about?' He says eventually.

She nods and answers, 'Yes'. She could have added _if you're ready to talk_, but they're both professionals: they both know the moves of the game, she won't insult him by playing it.

He tells her then, without emotion, the whole sorry story of how he came to shoot Maria, not caring that he's promised secrecy to the others, not caring of the consequences, just desperately needing to unburden himself.

She asks questions, of course. She's shocked at his actions - especially the shooting of a police woman - but she remains by his side as he explains about the bad and the good sides of Alvo, his suspicions, and then the dwarf and Maria, the drugs and corruption, and the crippling fear surrounding that nightmare week and her heart goes out to him, caught like the others in the terrible affair, forced into a situation beyond their scope of reckoning.

'So the jam... you thought it was…?' He nods - still not looking at her. She looks down at her chest now - to the neutral beige-coloured fabric of her bra and sees the source of his avoidance.

'Close your eyes.' She commands gently, and so emotionally drained is he, he obeys.

As she anticipates what she's about to do she remembers a time sitting with another man, a man sitting quietly hiding from the world, a man temporarily beaten, and she regrets that she didn't quite have this closeness with that other man, that he never opened up to her and she never had the confidence then to do with him what she is about to do now.

Taking a deep breath she reaches up to Quinn's head and pulls him gently to her chest.

'What do you smell?' She asks quietly.

He turns his head slowly and she notices what she didn't in the midst of the trauma of his sobs: his long Genelike lashes, his floppy rumpled hair, the Genelike strength of his neck, the imperceptible crinkle of skin behind his ear…

'Strawberries.'

'And what do you hear?'

He listens, his breath whispering against her skin.

'Your heart, beating.'

The rumble of his voice sends a wave of heat flooding towards her centre. She stops the gasp that would come unbidden. Holding it in leaves her ribs straining against a vacuum of air and she feels her heart race faster against his ear - he must know...

She strokes the hair away from his face. His eyes are still closed.

'I'm not dead.' She tells him, letting him settle into her.

Moving his hair has given her sight of his mouth and she scarcely believes she's going to do what she does next.

'And how do I taste?'

His tongue, when it emerges from between his lips is tentative. It rasps against the satin of her bra like a cat's, turning the pink stain of jam into a dark circle.

He keeps his eyes closed as if opening them would destroy the dream, make her evaporate before him, but now she doesn't suppress the heaving of her breaths and he knows she wants this by the arching of her back and the urgency of her cries.

The sight of him, his Genelike pout breaking into a shy smile over her breast spurs her on. Suddenly the fabric barrier is a barrier too much and she squeezes a desperate hand between them to pull and stretch at the encasing cup, straining the straps and letting out a hiss as the underwire pinches the underneath of her breast before her breast springs free.

Her desire escalates as her fingers slither over a hardening wet nipple then accidentally roll across his warm tongue. She feels him start to suck at her fingers and hastily pushes her breast into his mouth -

'Suck… bite…' She feels him nibble - 'oh, that's so good,' she murmurs, but then it isn't - his mouth stops sucking and his tongue dances over her too sensitive tip setting a million nerve endings grating and sending her into squirming dervish to avoid the unwelcome darts of electricity.

He opens his eyes now, mistaking her writhing for increased passion, but that is good because now he seeks intimacy and cranes his head up so they can share a kiss, and that is good because he kisses her softly and he tastes of tea and toothpaste instead of the smoke ash and whisky she half expected, but after lifting his mouth from her nipple he's replaced it with his hand and whilst the gentle kneading of her breast is welcome his thumb has found the nerve endings again and is proceeding to jar every one of them into a hunger she can't control.

With desperate haste she levers herself up, pushing at his hips in an attempt to get him to stand.

She's moving so fast he feels bemused more than anything. Not that the feel of her writhing beneath him hasn't felt wonderful, not that the taste of her jam covered breast or her sweet lips haven't aroused his ardour, just that it feels too much too soon. He can't remember a time when he's made a woman this hot for him.

'Christ, I never expected...' he admits as her hands alternate between caressing his burgeoning erection and undoing his trousers. 'Are you sure you want to do this?' She gives him a look that says, _really, you ask that question now?_ before pushing his trousers to his knees. He looks down and realises he's wearing one of the novelty boxers his son had bought him one Christmas, the one with one side with a hand pointing up to the 'man' and the other side a hand pointing to his groin with the word 'legend'.

'Shit!' He wipes his face, embarrassed. He wonders again which bit of his behaviour has turned her into a raving sex manic. Was it collapsing in a heap of sobs or is it now standing before her in his last choice pants. 'Sorry, my son's idea of humour - my last clean pair - been living out of suitcases for days.'

Her smile puts him at ease - at least his boxers have amused her, but looking in her eyes he sees that despite her smiling lips her hazel eyes look desperate. 'Let's see if you live up to it…legend.'

The legend… she likes that image. Likes it a lot.

He stokes her flawless jawline as she hooks her fingers into his waistband and exposes him to the air. 'Not, bad. Not bad at all Mr...er... ' Her voice fades away as she licks her lips.

She stares into his grey eyes, looking away from the softness she sees there - hoping that in the heat of the moment he hasn't realised her almost faux pas. She opens her mouth over him, grinning as she senses the throb of his cock straining to meet her. She dribbles out a small trail of saliva onto its head before teasing him with a circle of her tongue and a gentle graze of her teeth.

His eyes roll in his head and he lets out a low rumbling hiss. A millisecond earlier he could have sworn she was about to call him something other than 'Quinn' and he thinks he knows who, but the sensation of her tongue teasing his head has obliterated that thought and many others that involved questions about how he's ended up here with the hottest woman on the planet insanely pursuing his cock with her tongue.

The bliss-induced caress of her face turns into a stroking of her hair as she sucks, her hands tugging slightly on his hips. Her tongue still working overtime she releases him periodically to slide her cheek against his length, letting him roll against her before she devours him greedily again.

He pushes a knee between her legs, applying pressure and she groans and wriggles around him and redoubles her efforts.

He concentrates on lifting her hair from her face, pulling it back into a pony tail behind her, admiring the discovery of a graceful stretch of neck. He marvels at the hollowing of her cheeks as she sucks. Christ, looking at her, so beautiful and eager, he feels like a teenager again. Only that's a problem - she's too fucking good...

One of her hands has moved to his balls and the other has parted his shirt. Now the shirt hand is planing along the expanse of his torso, seeking out his nipples, pinching and flicking them relentlessly. He almost cries it is so good. He looks down and sees both her breasts have escaped from her bra and they're swinging against his thighs. His legs tremble as he feels his balls tighten.

'Shit, Christ, slow down…' He tries to pull back - feeling like a teenager has another consequence - but if anything his words have made her efforts increase in pace, and then he's feeling it - the white liquid of ecstasy snaking through his balls - he makes a desperate attempt to extract himself from her mouth, putting his hand around his cock and touching hers hand.

The touch of his hand on hers surprises her, bringing her out of the journey to escalation she's been building single-mindedly up to. Her mouth relaxes a fraction in that fraction he withdraws. It's a critical moment, critical timing and he knows he's got it wrong as soon as he hits air.

She watches him trying to stem the flow, slack-jawed, as if coming out of a trance state, but he's too late. With the impeccable timing of a porn star, he fires a cum shot over her breasts.

She sits in a state of shock, her hands drawn to the gloop slipping down her skin.

'I'm sorry…' he starts, 'I tried…' Shit, he's shit at explaining. She goes to stand, 'You can wash in the bathroom, if you want.' He offers her an escape, feeling the need too to collect his thoughts, to work out what has just happened between them.

She leaves without hesitation, walking as if in a dream and when she shuts the door she locks it.

8888888888888888

Nasty angsty place to leave this I know. I am bad.

TBC.


End file.
